


Looking In

by words_fail



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 04:23:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13240344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_fail/pseuds/words_fail
Summary: I know, because there’s Connor, and all my hope is pinned on Connor, who I don’t even know, and doesn’t know me.Evan’s paralyzed, frozen in place when he hears theswishof Connor snatching the letter from the computer lab printer.





	Looking In

_I know, because there’s Connor, and all my hope is pinned on Connor, who I don’t even know, and doesn’t know me._

Evan’s paralyzed, frozen in place when he hears the _swish_ of Connor snatching the letter from the computer lab printer. A vein pulses on the back of Connor’s hand as his grip on the page tightens. He starts to shake.

Finally he crushes the paper in his fist. “This a joke?”

“Um.”

“You knew I’d find this, and then I’d freak out, and then you could tell people I’m crazy?”

“No, I’m sorry, that wasn’t what I meant—”

He hurls the paper at Evan’s head and stalks out of the lab.

-

The next day, Connor doesn’t show at school.

-

Evan’s at a corner table in the cafeteria, watching Jared talk to his real, non-family friends. He doesn’t see Connor coming until— thunk!— he slams his palm on the table. “You. Talk.”

Evan shrinks back and fixes his eyes on his sandwich, but he can’t help but sneak a glance at Connor, at the shadows under his eyes, darker than normal. “I. I’m really sorry about the letter—”

“Quit apologizing.”

“. . . I’m sorry.”

Connor just stares at him, his face impassive; even while Evan overflows with nervous energy, he’s always been still and silent, unless he’s actively fighting someone. “Why’d you write that thing?” he mutters, almost too quiet for Evan to hear.

“I have a therapist,” Evan says, his hands gesticulating against his will, “because I have an anxiety disorder, and sometimes when I talk to people the words don’t come out, but sometimes all the words come out and I start spilling my entire life story to some poor sucker who didn’t ask for it and oh god I’m doing it right now aren’t I?”

Connor narrows his eyes, and Evan would be scared, if not for the little twitch in Connor’s lip.

“So my therapist told me to write letters to myself, with all the reasons why it’s going to be a good day today, but that went horribly because it was a lousy day, it’s always a lousy day, and there’s never any reasons for why it’s going to be a good day, because anxiety.”

“So what am I doing in there?” Connor tenses up his jaw, nostrils flaring. “What, am I reason number #1 why every day sucks?”

“Yes? But not because you exist or anything like that, more because I never manage to string a coherent sentence together when you’re around.”

“I freak you out too much?”

“Yes, but oh god this isn’t coming out right.”

Connor rolls his eyes dramatically and more subtly clenches his fist. “What are you trying to say?”

“I, well.” Evan chuckles nervously. “I’m trying to come out?”

Connor’s eyes suddenly snap to his, and Evan can’t breathe, and there’s a chance Connor will lash out and kill him right now, and a much higher chance that he’ll just drop dead under the weight of his own folly.

The bell rings, and Evan scrambles away to class.

-

Evan’s shuffling through the books in his locker when Connor sneaks up again.

“You must have Stockholm Syndrome.”

Evan jumps up, heart battering against his ribs, and before he can help it he yelps, “Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Sneaking up on me!”

Connor frowns. “Is it . . . bad for the anxiety?”

“Yeah, just a bit?”

“Hm.” He tilts his head, considering. “I won’t make that mistake again. But my point stands.”

“You think I have Stockholm Syndrome?”

“It’s the only reasonable explanation.”

“That—” Evan frowns, shoulders slumping. “That’s really sad.”

“I know,” he snorts.

“No, for you. That you think that’s the only reason anyone could—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, instead just shutting the locker and turning around. He flinches, realizing that Connor is looming over him, too close for comfort. Connor blinks and then backs up a few steps.

“Anyone who cares about me,” Connor says, lowering his voice, “is by definition a lunatic. That means you’re obviously insane, and my best diagnosis is Stockholm Syndrome.”

Evan squints up at him, because what the hell do you do with that? “You, um, you don’t terrorize me personally that much? Yeah, you shoved me this year, and you hit me in seventh grade when you threw all the pencils, but that was an accident, I don’t think you were aiming at me. So all in all you ignore me too much for Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t aiming at you.”

“Good.” Evan nods, head vibrating up and down. “Good.”

“Still doesn’t explain why the hell your hope ‘is pinned on me.’”

The crowd around the lockers has thinned, but Evan scans the area, checking that nobody else is within hearing range. Then, he stutters out, “M-music class, sixth grade. You had a solo.”

“So?”

“So you smiled when you sang, and you don’t smile that often, so I remember it.”

“Who cares if I smile?”

“I do,” Evan whispers. Connor raises an eyebrow, and he adds, “You have a really pretty smile, it’s sort of subtle, and perfect, and, and real.”

Connor scoffs at that. “I’m not pretty.”

“You haven’t looked in a mirror recently,” he mumbles, stealing a glance at Connor before rambling on, “I tried writing poetry about you once, and the word I keep coming back to for your face is ‘ethereal’? Oh god, I can’t believe I just told you that.”

Connor barks out a laugh. “I revise my diagnosis. You don’t have Stockholm Syndrome, you’re just a stalker.”

“No, no, I swear I’m not!”

“Yeah? You write poetry about me!” Connor’s face is twisted oddly, in a way Evan doesn’t recognize at first; he’s grinning. “Come on, what else have you written about me?”

“I— you get bored a lot in class, right?”

“Yeah, when I show up.”

“So I noticed you scribble on the desks when you get bored? And sometimes it’s just swear words, but I know you draw caricatures of the teachers a lot, and they’re good. Unflattering, but really good.” Connor’s looking at him curiously now, and he doesn’t try to stop the words from spilling out. “And when you buy Snapple from the vending machine, you always look at the little facts on the bottom of the caps before you throw them out. And, um, I like that you grew out your hair? Maybe it’s school shooter chic, but I think it looks vaguely angelic, myself? And also I like the way you dance.”

“You like the way I dance,” Connor deadpans.

“Yeah, you dance like no one else is watching.”

“It’s called flailing.”

“It’s coordinated flailing. Occasionally in time with the music and everything.”

Evan’s laughing, and Connor’s miraculously laughing with him, but—

“Hang on, are you— I didn’t mean to make you cry, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Connor snaps. “It’s just . . .” He closes his eyes and sways for a second. “Why didn’t you ever come talk to me?”

“You— I like you, but you’re still kinda terrifying in general?”

“That’s fair,” he shrugs. “And if you decide never to talk to me again, I wouldn’t blame you, I break everything I touch.”

As he says it he looks through Evan, not at him, and those are definitely tears glimmering in his eyes.

“Hey,” Evan says, “is something wrong?”

“No,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle. “But it could have been.” He reaches out and brushes a finger gently against Evan’s chin, tilting his head up, and Evan somehow looks right into his sky blue eyes, pushing down the urge to flee.

“You know,” Evan finally says, “I think this might not be an awful day.”

Connor responds with a long exhale and a strange, soft smile. “Glad I’m here for it.”


End file.
